


All Lonely Things Above

by CrunchyWrites



Category: Critical Role (Web Series), Critical Role (Wildemount Campaign)
Genre: (kind of), Alternate Universe - Military, Amnesiac Mollymauk, Amnesiac Mollymauk Tealeaf, Canon Divergent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-show, Warmage Caleb, Warmage Caleb theory, gratuitous use of the strings of fate as a plot device, they both live it's fine i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 04:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14229708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrunchyWrites/pseuds/CrunchyWrites
Summary: This is the story of how Caleb Widogast meets Mollymauk Tealeaf five years early.





	All Lonely Things Above

The god of fate stands in the shadows of the world, a myriad web of threads extending from their fingers and into the edges of the planes. They shimmer in the non-darkness, twisting and flowing and combining under the god’s watchful gaze. Occasionally the god shifts their countless hands, tugging on the threads so that they fall as they should, life meeting life and life meeting end.

They do not notice as one thread catches on another and pulls it out of alignment.

They do not notice when the dislodged thread drifts towards another one lurking in the shadows, coiling itself tight around it.

They do not notice when the two threads intertwine until they are turned to one, indistinguishable and impossible to separate.

They turn around, and finally spy the threads.

“Oh, fuck,” says the god.

\---

This is the story of how Caleb Widogast meets Mollymauk Tealeaf five years early.

\---

The 31st Warmages Platoon of the Royal Zemnian Army has been heading west on the Silvered Road for three days when lieutenant Caleb Widogast, riding at the front, spots something by the side of the road and calls a halt.

It looks, at first glance, like a pile of discarded rags; it’s grey and brown and made filthy with the mud and the sleeting rain pouring down around them, and under normal circumstances Caleb would ignore it and keep his men moving on. They have places to be, after all – currently they’re en route to a resupply stop at Kyerin, and with the war still ongoing, still eating into their ranks and their men and their population they have a duty to get there as fast as they can. There is no time to stop to sate their lieutenant’s curiosity.

Caleb stops the troop all the same. He thinks he may have caught a shift of movement from the lump, some indication of life, and now that he has he cannot seem to draw his attention away from it. He is… intrigued. More than intrigued – it feels as if there’s guiding force at the back of his skull urging him towards it, as if there’s something in his head, in his gut and his soul and his bones saying _this is important_.

Saying _this you must look at_.

Caleb trusts his gut, and so he does.

He turns in his saddle and beckons over one of the lance-corporals who was marching near the front of the platoon. “I’m going to look at whatever that is,” he says, gesturing to the form, “Tell Sergeant Ferne, and find someone to hold my horse.”

The lance-corporal salutes and scurries off into the rain and ranks the moment the ‘yes, sir,’ has left their lips, returning a few moments later. Caleb’s already dismounted by then, boots sinking deep into the muddied road, and he passes the reins to the lance-corporal without a glance – he is normally at least slightly more polite than this, but something about this whole situation feels… off.

Feels different.

Caleb knows himself, and he knows himself to be a cautious man. While he is all for being a responsible leader and taking part in activities with his men and aiding them in battle and _not_ leading them safely from two miles behind like _some_ lieutenants he could mention, he is also exceedingly cautious. He never sends men on solo missions, never approaches anything potentially dangerous without at least a private at his side; even a collapsed being like this that could so very easily pass for a bundle of discarded rags would normally be treated with nothing less than a two-man approach with crossbows and spells readied from a distance, and yet…

Going against everything he knows, everything he does, Caleb approaches the entity alone.

It takes until he is almost upon it for him to realise that what he’s looking at is a tiefling, clothed in rain and mud-soaked rags with shattered chains hanging heavy from his curling horns. What flashes of skin Caleb can make out beneath the mud seem to be a pale lavender in colour, and when the tiefling opens his eyes too look at Caleb they’re _red_ – red pupil, red iris, red _everything_. It’s unnerving, certainly, but Caleb doesn’t stop his approach – he’s seen far, far more unsettling things in the war, and instead he crouches down in the mud a few feet from the tiefling and waits.

The tiefling only watches him back and makes no move to stand or speak. It becomes clear that if conversation is to be had then it will have to be Caleb who initiates it, and so he does.

“Hello,” he says eventually. There’s no response. Caleb shifts in a bit closer, and the moment he does the tiefling shuffles too, slip-sliding in the mud until he’s holding his torso up. It’s only now that Caleb can truly see the state the tiefling is in – his chest is covered in blood, bleeding from a network of cuts scattered across his torso like someone had tried to make embroidery out of his chest. The fabric of the tiefling’s shirt is soaked through with blood and rain, and when Caleb reaches to touch it, to try and see the extent of the damage, the tiefling gives a near-silent whimper and flinches away.

Caleb draws his hand back and sees his fingertips coated in rich, dark blood before the rain washes them clean.

_Scheiße._

“Hey,” he says, and reaches out again, slower than before like he’s trying to telegraph his movements. The tiefling flinches before he can even get close and he withdraws his hand immediately, drops it to his lap and makes no further attempt to reach out. “Hey, hey, it’s alright, I’m not going to hurt you, I’m just here to offer you help.” The tiefling tilts his head slightly, red eyes narrowed in a confused frown, and Caleb realises a potential problem. “Do you speak Zemnian?” he asks, and gets only the same confused frown in response. “Common?”

The tiefling frowns again, and lifts a hand to make a small, uncertain gesture. _Of course_. Even if he does speak common Caleb’s quick to realise that it’s unlikely that he’ll know the word for common in Zemnian - with the war still ongoing there’s more refugees pouring into the country every day, and very few of them speak Zemnian to a conversational, let alone fluent level.

Caleb sighs, and switches to common. He doesn’t like speaking common. He’s still not perfect at it and at times it makes him sound slow and clunky, makes him sound like an idiot just because he can’t find the right word in this whole other language. But he’ll have to speak it now. It’s his best bet if he wants to communicate with the tiefling.

And he _does_. He really, really does, to a degree that actually shocks him. It’s like there’s a wire in his chest tugging him towards the tiefling, drawing him in and drawing him closer, and he doesn’t know _what_ it is but it doesn’t feel magical. It doesn’t feel like anything Caleb knows. It simply _is_ , and he cannot ignore it.

“Do you speak common?” he says again, and hears his own accent coating the words. It works, though – the tiefling’s eyes widen slightly before he nods, and Caleb gives him a slight smile. “Okay, good, good. I, uh, I just said this, but you don’t appear to speak Zemnian so I suppose I must repeat myself…”

The corner of the tiefling’s mouth twitches into the faintest hint of a smile at Caleb’s rambling, and the wire in Caleb’s chest pulls tighter.

He thinks he feels himself smiling back.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says again, softening his words as best he can, “My name is Lieutenant Caleb Widogast of the Royal Zemnian Army – I just wish to offer you help if you need it.” He doesn’t say anything about the tiefling’s current state, but he’s sure that the way his eyes flicker over the tiefling’s body and the myriad of cuts adorning his skin is explanation enough. The tiefling’s skin is purple to begin with but even then Caleb can see the shape of bruises blooming along his chest and arms and shoulders, staining the pale lavender an ugly yellow-green. Nothing about the tiefling’s condition looks good, and Caleb is quite certain that after a few seconds the tiefling will accept the platoon’s help, because it’s clear to anyone with working eyes that he needs it.

A few seconds pass.

The tiefling continues to say nothing, and Caleb frowns.

“Can you speak?” he asks, and watches as the tiefling gives a wry smile, shrugs, and then opens his mouth.

No sound comes out.

“Oh,” Caleb says, “Oh, um, okay. Well, uh, how about this – I’ll just ask you yes or no questions, and you nod or shake your head to answer them. Is that okay?”

The tiefling smiles again, just a little, and gives the faintest nod. Even over the sound of the rain Caleb can hear the broken chains on his horns jingling.

“Good,” Caleb says, “And you’ve understood me this far?” For a moment the tiefling doesn’t respond, instead pulling a slight face, and Caleb hastens to add, “Once I started speaking common, that is.”

_Nod_.

“So you know I’m just here to offer you help if you need it?”

_Nod_.

“Do you want our help?”

No response.

“We can provide you with food and water and leave you be, if you’d prefer,” Caleb hastens to add. It wouldn’t be the first time the army has helped another victim of war who doesn’t wishes to be carried along with their ranks. “We have spare blankets and clothing too, and-“

The tiefling holds up a hand, and Caleb falls silent immediately. The tiefling does nothing for a few moments, hand still hovering in the space between them, and then he points at Caleb and rotates his wrist, cycling his hand backwards.

“Go back?” Caleb asks, “You wish for me to go back?” The tiefling lifts his hand to his mouth and mimes as if he’s trying to speak. “Go back in my words?” A nod. “Oh, okay.” Caleb pauses for a moment, trying to figure out how far back to go. To the last unanswered question, he supposes. Thank the Gods for his memory. “Do you want our help?” he asks, and this time the tiefling nods. Caleb nods back, and shifts his glance from the tiefling to the waiting, rain-drenched platoon. They have no spare horses, not now – if the tiefling is to travel with them he will have to do so amongst the ranks.

Caleb looks back at him. “Can you walk?”

He gets a nod in response, followed by a so-so gesture and a grimace. The message is clear: _I can, but maybe not in this state_.

Caleb frowns and worries at his lip. Under normal circumstances he would suggest that the tiefling be put in the medic’s cart, but their last conflict was not without losses – the cart is full already, and he cannot prioritise the well-being of a single unknown tiefling over the well-being of his men. The tiefling cannot ride in the cart.

_But he can ride with me_ , Caleb thinks, and immediately wonders where that thought came from. That is… that is _not_ something that happens. Ever. Platoon commanders do not let random, unknown civilians ride with them simply because their medic’s cart is full. They task them to one of their section leaders, or assign a group of privates to keep them walking, or they ask their men to fashion a stretcher and carry the civilian like that. They do not offer to share their horse with them.

But that’s exactly what Caleb’s going to do.

“Sergeant Ferne!” he calls out, swapping back to Zemnian, and hears the quiet scuffling from behind him as Ferne dismounts her horse and hands the rein off to someone. She approaches quickly, elven footsteps near-silent under the sound of the rain, and snaps to attention beside him.

“Sir,” she says.

Caleb gestures to the tiefling. “Help me lift him,” he says, “We’ll carry him to my horse – I’ll ride with him until we stop to make camp.”

Ferne swallows. “Sir,” she says, and Caleb lifts his head to look at her, eyes narrowed in a glare. He recognises the tone in her voice – it’s not one he hears often, not in his position. It’s the tone of a person who is about to question his orders. He is the lieutenant of this platoon, after all – he is their commander, their officer, the absolute last word on anything, and most people would not dare to question him.

But Ferne is also his friend, and she is one of the few who can and will question his orders, and Caleb is quietly grateful for it.

“Yes?” he asks, and his tone isn’t as icy as it could have been.

Ferne glances between him and the tiefling, still curled in the mud. “Is this wise, sir? We know nothing about him. He could be a spy.”

“If he is a spy, rest assured that I will kill him myself,” Caleb replies. He does not say _I will take responsibility for him_ , but he knows that Ferne can read it in his tone, in how he holds himself and how he acts.

Ferne nods. “Very well, sir.”

Caleb turns back to the tiefling. “This is Sergeant Ferne,” he says in common, gesturing to elf in question, “She’s going to help me lift you. Is that okay?”

_Nod_.

“Good. Is there anywhere in particular you don’t want us to touch you – do not give me that look, this is a very reasonable question – and if there is, gesture to it.”

There’s a moment’s pause, and then the tiefling, carefully and slowly, like he fears he might be punished for it at any time, gestures to his horns and lower legs.

That’s simple enough. It’s easy to avoid those parts, and when Caleb gestures for Ferne to help it’s the work of a moment for the two of them to grab the tiefling around the shoulder and waist and lift.

Even soaked through with rain and blood he weighs almost nothing. It’s a little awkward to carry him to the front of the platoon but both Caleb and Ferne have carried heavier for longer and under much, much worse conditions – carrying the tiefling is a picnic by comparison, and they soon have him standing besides Caleb’s horse as Ferne issues a quick order to send for a medic. There’s a brief lull while a medic is fetched, but after the application of a healing spell it’s determined that the tiefling is stable enough to ride until they break for camp, and so the medic is dismissed and two men from Ferne’s section are called to aid Caleb in getting the tiefling up and into his saddle after Caleb himself has mounted. It takes a few attempts, but between them they manage to hoist him up, and the moment he’s sitting behind Caleb he slumps forwards, his weight heavy against Caleb’s back.

“Hey,” Caleb says, swapping his reins into one hand. He glances down, dismisses his men with a nod, and turns his attention back to the tiefling who seems to be using his shoulder for a pillow. “Can you move your arms? You will be much more secure if you hold onto me.” There’s no response, but after a few seconds the tiefling’s arms slowly creep around Caleb’s stomach, crossing at the wrist. “Good,” Caleb murmurs, and picks up the slack in the reins. Immediately his horse stirs from her half-doze – she is a warhorse born and bred, and Caleb has no doubt that she will be able to carry the two of them without an issue.

“Sergeant!” he calls, and Ferne pulls her horse up close to his.

“Yes, sir?”

“We’re walking on.”

“Yes sir,” says Ferne, and she wheels her horse around, immediately doling out orders to the two other section leaders.

Caleb presses his heels to his horse’s flanks, feels the tiefling’s arms tighten around his middle, and the platoon walks on.

\---

They march for another twelve miles before Caleb calls a halt. The runners who have been scouting out ahead report back with news of a flatland of a suitable size for the platoon to make camp, and Caleb knows that if they travel at the same pace tomorrow they’ll be back on track for their arrival at Kyerin in six days. In order to do that they’ll need to be well-rested, and the flatland looks suitable and easy enough to post watches around, and so he issues his orders and observes as the camp is constructed and watches are assigned. The tiefling remains on the horse with him, and Caleb would think he were asleep if he couldn’t feel him flinching and gasping every time his body was jostled.

Caleb waits only until the medic’s tent is constructed before getting the tiefling off his horse. It takes another two privates to help the tiefling dismount, and they both have to support his weight the moment his feet hit the ground. Caleb dismounts after him, and resolutely does not step in closer and wrap an arm around the tiefling’s waist the way something in his gut is urging him to. He wants the tiefling to be safe. He wants him to be safe and secure and _well_ , but he knows he cannot do that alone.

“Take him to the medics,” Caleb orders. “Have them look over him, assess his injuries, and treat what they can.” He pauses, and then adds, “And put him in my tent once the medics are done with him.” It is not, he defends himself mentally, an entirely ridiculous order – their last skirmish was a harsh one, and he knows for a fact that there are not enough cots in the medic’s tent for all their wounded soldiers. They do not need a civilian taking up space.

The privates nod and are about to turn to leave when Caleb stops them.

“Wait,” he says, and then turns to the tiefling, pressing his fingers to his forearm to get his attention. The tiefling raises his head to look at him, brows furrowed in confusion, and when Caleb speaks again he speaks in common. “Those chains on your horns,” he says, and does not miss the fear and panic that flashes through the tiefling’s eyes at the mention of them, “Do you want them gone?”

The nod he gets in response is instantaneous.

“Alright,” he says, giving what he hopes is a reassuring smile, and turns back to the privates. “Take him by the blacksmiths and get the chains off his horns. Dismissed.”

They leave, the tiefling shooting Caleb one last worried glance as they do, and Caleb tamps down on the instinct that’s driving him to walk by the tiefling’s side and assure his worries, and goes instead to find his section commanders.

\---

When Caleb returns to his tent, the following days journey and actions planned and all orders distributed to his sergeant and corporals he finds that, in the absence of any more specified instruction from him, his men have provided the tiefling with a bedroll on the far side of the tent to his own. The tiefling himself is curled in the blankets, perfectly still and perfectly silent; Caleb would think he was asleep if he couldn’t see his eyes shining eerie and red in the light of the candles that illuminate his tent.

“Hello,” he says quietly. With the tent-flap shut and the rain trailing off it’s surprisingly silent in the tent; he can hear the faint shuffling of the blankets as the tiefling sits up to look at him, and when he moves just so Caleb catches a flash of white on his chest.

“I see the medics bandaged you up?” he asks and the tiefling nods, smiling just a little as he lifts a hand to his chest and gently pats the bandages before moving that same hand to one of his curling horns. He taps his horn too, running his fingers over the grooved surface where the chains once rested, and then gives Caleb a bright, sharp smile and a thumbs up.

Caleb smiles back at him. “You seem happier,” he says, and doesn’t say that the tiefling also looks significantly more _alive_. His skin looks noticeably more colourful than it did when Caleb first found him and his actions seem stronger in general – he no longer looks like a strong breeze might blow him down, and when the tiefling rolls his eyes Caleb can read _well, obviously_ in them as clearly as if the tiefling had spoken.

And… speaking of that, Caleb should really try and figure out the tiefling’s name. He can’t just keep calling him ‘the tiefling’- well, he _can_ , but he doesn’t want to.

He wants to know his name.

“Can you write?” he asks suddenly, moving to the small chest that’s been placed at the foot of his cot. He watches the tiefling long enough to catch his nod and then crouches down to rifle through the chest, withdrawing a sheet of parchment and a stick of charcoal after not too long. “Would you mind writing your name?” he asks, and when the tiefling nods again Caleb moves to kneel by the side of his bedroll, holding out the parchment and charcoal. The tiefling takes the parchment, shifting in the bedroll until he can use his leg as a surface to write on, and then he takes the charcoal and begins to write. _M – O – L – L – Y – M…_

“Mollymauk,” Caleb reads out quietly as the word is completed, and the tiefling- Mollymauk- looks up at him and flashes him a grin so bright it almost hurts. “Mollymauk,” Caleb says again, and Mollymauk nods frantically a few times before leaning back down to scrawl something else beneath his name.

_Molly for short_ , it reads, and Caleb smiles.

“Molly,” he says. “It is good to meet you, Molly. I’m Caleb.”

Molly opens his mouth, gives a huff of breath that Caleb assumes is supposed to be a laugh, and adds something beneath his name. _I know_.

“Oh, yes, I suppose you do.”

_~~Leu luei~~ lieutenant Widogast_.

“That is me.”

_Zemnian?_

“Yes. I command the 31st Warmages platoon of the Royal Zemnian Army.”

Caleb watches as Molly’s eyes widen slightly, and he writes something hastily across the paper. _Magic?_

“Yes,” Caleb says and he lifts a hand, mutters under his breath and summons a small mote of flame that he sets to dancing between his fingers. The light it casts catches in Molly’s eyes, setting them to glowing like embers. “We are all mages to some degree. Sergeant Ferne – do you recall her? She helped me carry you to my horse – is exceptionally talented at the Thunderclap spell.”

Molly smiles. _I have magic too_ , he writes, and Caleb feels a smile crawl across his face.

“Really?” he asks, “What is it that you can do?”

_Nothing right now_.

“But-“

Molly lifts a hand, and Caleb falls silent immediately. _Verbal_ Molly writes, and Caleb nods in understanding.

Verbal, material, somatic. The three components of the vast majority of spells. Caleb can only think of a few that don’t require anything to be spoken.

“I am sorry to hear that,” he says softly, and Molly pulls a slight face, one shoulder lifting in a half-shrug.

_Nothing that can be done_.

“Have you always been…” He trails off, wracks his brain, but cannot remember the common translation of _stumm_. “Unable to speak?” he finishes eventually, and Molly shrugs again. When he writes his reply it is slower than anything he had written previously.

_I don’t know_.

“How do you not know?”

_I can’t remember._

“How much?” He is pushing and he knows it, but he is also intensely curious. Molly looks at him, and then appends a single word to the end of the sentence he just wrote.

_I can’t remember anything._

\---

Molly continues to sleep in Caleb’s tent. It goes against every protocol and recommendation Caleb knows but it happens anyway – Caleb had suggested to Molly on the second night that he would perhaps like to sleep in the medics tent or with the rest of the men, but Molly had been quick to shake his head and reach for his parchment and charcoal and write one word.

_SAFE._ He’d underlined it. His expression, when he’d pointed the charcoal stick at Caleb and then back at the page had been a slightly confused one, but in a strange way Caleb felt like he understood – he, too, preferred it when Mollymauk was in the same tent at him at night. He felt _secure_ , like something in his bones had shifted into a more comfortable position that he hadn’t even known existed. He is well aware that there are whispers being traded between his soldiers, rumours of who Molly is and _why_ he shares space with the lieutenant every night, but Caleb isn’t concerned – he has proven himself to his platoon time and time again, and any rumours that might be spread will likely be short-lived.

He is their commander after all, and they do not question him.

And so, every night, Caleb helps set the camp and issues his orders and meets with his sections commanders to discuss the plan for the next day and then returns to his tent to find Molly already settled in his bedroll on the far side of the tent to Caleb’s cot. Sometimes they trade a few words, Caleb asking quiet questions and Molly writing his replies, or Caleb sitting quietly while Molly writes out something he wishes to ask Caleb.

Molly seems _happier_ when he’s in Caleb’s tent, Caleb’s noticed; Molly clearly doesn’t say much to begin with, but when they’re travelling or in the presence or company of others Molly almost seems to retreat into himself, as if he’s trying to make himself smaller so as to avoid any attention. He doesn’t write anything, doesn’t reach out to tap on Caleb’s arm or shoulder to get his attention as he’s started to become prone to doing, doesn’t make any of his wonderfully communicative facial expressions that say so much without words. He only does those things in Caleb’s tent, when it’s just the two of them. All which implies, as far as Caleb can tell, that Molly considers the tent – _his_ tent – a safe place.

Which really makes it all the sadder that despite Molly’s apparent comfort he is still no stranger to nightmares.

On more than one occasion, Caleb’s night-watch honed ears have picked up on something and he’s startled awake in the small hours of the night to Molly gasping or making awful, choking, half-formed sounds that could be screams or cries or sobs or all three combined. He doesn’t know what night terrors cause Molly to start awake so frequently and he doesn’t question him on them – considering what Molly had told him about having no memories from before their meeting Caleb doubts that even Molly knows what the nightmares are about.

One night, Caleb awakens to find that, for some reason, part way through the night Molly had shifted closer to him and his cot. It’s clearly an intentional thing – previously Molly’s bedroll had been set out on the far side of the tent to give them both the impression of as much privacy as possible, but when he glances around, making out the half-formed, blurry shapes in the darkness, he eventually spies Molly a scant metre or so away from Caleb’s cot. He appears to be curled on his side but in the darkness Caleb cannot make out the expression on his face; he catches only the faintest hint of light glinting off Molly’s flame-red eyes and they watch each other for a few long, silent seconds before Molly twists, and rolls over onto his other side.

It should bother Caleb, that Molly encroached so far into his space. It should bother him, but it doesn’t.

It doesn’t bother him at all.

“You may sleep next to my bed,” Caleb murmurs to Molly the next morning as they together pack up the tent. He’d spent some time dwelling on it the previous night, and had eventually come to the conclusion that he really doesn’t mind at all. He wants Molly to be well-rested. He wants Molly to be happy. “If it helps you sleep better, you may do that.”

The look that Molly shoots him is grateful, and they say no more on the matter.

From that night on, Molly sets his bedroll close against the side of Caleb’s cot.

\---

They stop by Kyerin, resupply, and receive their orders – they are to move on to the garrison in Aelef, where they will be stationed until they are deployed. It’s another weeks march or so, but for men who know they won’t have to fight for the entirety of that week it’s a welcome respite. The weather has started to clear up too – they’ve left the worst of the mud behind them, and with spring settling more comfortably into the country it is, all things considered, perhaps the most pleasant journey they’ll be expected to take. The platoon in general are in high spirits, and after a few days rest they’re more than ready to move on.

Even Molly seems happier – he sleeps better now, Caleb’s noticed, and he flinches less when people come near him unexpectedly. He’s still picky about physical contact, still avoids it wherever possible, but in the quiet bustle of the farming town he seems almost at ease, smiling and looking around and giving his small, silent laugh every now and again. He doesn’t exactly make friends – it’s hard to do when you cannot speak and can only write in most people’s second language – but the townsfolk treat him with less hostility and outright suspicious than many of the men under Caleb’s command do.  It makes sense; Kyerin is a pleasant enough town, far enough from the borders and the fighting that it is still mostly untouched by war, and with a handful of tieflings and drow already amongst their populace Molly doesn’t stand out nearly so much as he does in the platoon.

Caleb wonders, quietly, if Molly will choose to stay in Kyerin.

It’s a reasonable concern. Molly is not a soldier. Molly is not even a Zemnian. Molly in no way belongs with the 31st Platoon.

When the platoon continues on towards Aelef Molly marches with them anyway.

\---

The day before they arrive at the garrison Molly starts speaking.

The first time he says anything Caleb is certain he must have imagined it. The rain has finally given up entirely but the spring wind is still going strong, whistling around his tent and rustling the fabric with every gust. Caleb, sitting at the tiny table that he uses as a temporary desk, can only just make out the sound of his quill scratching away at parchment over it.

He’s sitting there, head bowed and brow furrowed in concentration when he first hears it – a whisper of sound, of speech, that doesn’t belong in the quiet environment of the tent. No one has entered and no one is supposed to be meeting with him until officer’s mess and so he’s quick to dismiss the sound out of hand, assuming it to be no more than a gust of wind that sounded, as the wind sometimes does, uncannily close to a voice calling his name. And it was his _name_ too that it sounded like it was saying - not ‘lieutenant’. Not even ‘Widogast’.

‘ _Caleb’_.

He lifts his head, listens attentively for a few seconds, but when nothing follows the possibly-voice, probably-wind he shrugs to himself and turns back to his paperwork.

But then he hears it again, louder and more certain than before, and he freezes.

None of his soldiers would call him Caleb. Ferne is the only member of the platoon who even knows his first name; to the others he is simply ‘lieutenant’ or ‘lieutenant Widogast’ or, most commonly, ‘sir’. He is not ‘Caleb’. Caleb sits up, laying the quill down, and turns to look at the only other person who would call him by that.

It seems he is ‘Caleb’ to Molly.

“Caleb,” Molly says again and Caleb feels his eyes widening.

“ _Hallo_ ,” he says, unable to think of anything else to say, and Molly smiles wider.

“Caleb,” he says, “Hey.” His voice is soft and low, rough from disuse and tinged with an accent that Caleb can’t place and it sounds… lovely.

Molly sounds so lovely.

Caleb knows that he’s staring and he cannot make himself stop. “What do you-“ he says, tripping over his words, “How- do you-“

“Some,” Molly says, cutting Caleb off with an answer to the question he never managed to finish: _how much can you say_? “I- some.” His voice is quiet but somehow manages to carry above the sound of the wind. “ _Slowly,_ ” he says emphatically, pulling a face, and Caleb nods, stands from his desk to cross to where Molly is sitting on his cot and sit down next to him.

“That’s alright,” he says softly, still smiling, “That’s alright. There is no rush to speak.”

“Thank you,” Molly says. “You-… Good. _Good_. Calm. Thank you.”

Caleb’s heart squeezes. “Molly,” he says again and reaches out, takes one of Molly’s hands in his own without thinking about it, and for the first time Molly doesn’t pull away.

“Caleb,” he says simply, and he squeezes Caleb’s hand and smiles.

\---

They arrive at the garrison.

Caleb, officer that he is, is given his own room; Molly, after several hours of Caleb and Ferne arguing fiercely with the head servant, is provided with a cot in the servant’s quarters instead of being turfed out of the garrison entirely. The cot is small and the room is crowded and shared with at least fifteen other people, and Molly can feel his anxiety skyrocketing the moment he sets foot in the room, placing his small pack of gifted possessions (a change of clothes, the parchment and charcoal that Caleb first gave him) down on the bed. He can hear the servants whispering, murmuring amongst themselves as they glance over in his direction – he is the only tiefling he’s seen since they left Kyerin, and with his borrowed clothes and purple skin and dark, blood-red eyes he knows that he looks out of place.

Molly sits down on the cot and hunches in on himself as best he can, and does his best to ignore the whispers and pointed looks that he can feel crawling under his skin like ants. He hates this. He _hates_ this. He doesn’t know the language and doesn’t understand the words he’s hearing but it’s clear that they’re directed at him or about him and he hates it, he hates that people are looking at him and staring at him like he’s- like he’s an _exhibit_ or a _monster_ and his breath is coming shorter in his chest and he can feel his heartrate starting to pick up under his ribs.

He hates this.

He misses Caleb.

_He can’t be here_.

Molly rises, leaves his pack on the cot, does his very best to look put-together and _not_ like he’s on the edge of a full-blown panic attack, and flees the room at walking pace.

\---

Caleb finds him curled beneath some stairs two hours later, sitting amongst the dust and the cobwebs with his knees drawn up to his chest.

“Oh,” Caleb says softly when he spots him, dropping to his knees and shuffling in to join Molly in the shadows and darkness and quiet. “Oh, _schatz_.”

Molly frowns at the Zemnian, but only for a second – he doesn’t know what Caleb just said and it was exactly that lack of linguistic knowledge that had fuelled his anxiety in the servant’s quarters but somehow, in this instance, it’s ok. He trusts Caleb. Whatever Caleb said, Molly doubts it was bad. Caleb is good. Caleb is good and kind and he is looking at Molly with so much open concern in his eyes that Molly almost wants to apologise for the state that he’s in.

But he doesn’t, because Caleb speaks first.

“Are you alright?” Caleb asks, even though Molly is certain that the answer is apparent. “I went to find you after I met with the major and the servants told me you’d left. I assumed you had gone to explore the garrison, get settled in.”

Molly smiles weakly. No such luck there. ‘Settled’ is the opposite of how he feels right now. He glances up at Caleb and shakes his head, giving a wry, humourless smile. “No,” he says quietly, and his throat feels skinned raw from the desperate, gasping breaths he’d been taking the moment his legs had collapsed under him here in the stairwell. “I- no, I didn’t explore. I panicked…”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Caleb asks, his hands fidgeting with uncertainty, and Molly shakes his head again.

“No.”

“Okay.” Molly can hear the faint hint of relief in Caleb’s voice. Caleb, he knows, is also not stunning at dealing with emotions. Right now, Molly doesn’t blame him for it.

There’s a soft sound as Caleb sits down next to him, reaching up to absently brush off a spiderweb that got caught up in the embroidery of his uniform. Molly watches him quietly, his head still propped up on his knees, and after a few seconds of quiet staring Caleb shifts and extends an arm.

“May I…?” Caleb asks quietly and Molly nods, lets himself be pulled in to Caleb’s embrace. He turns his head, presses his ear to Caleb’s chest and listens to Caleb’s heartbeat over the sound of his horn rustling against Caleb’s uniform.

They sit like that in silence for a while, neither of them needing to speak, and Molly slowly, slowly, feels himself start to settle. He’s alright. He’s okay. Caleb is here, and Caleb is looking out for him. Caleb is looking out for him to the extent that as soon as he finished his very important actual military meeting he went looking for Molly – Molly doesn’t know _why_ he did, but the simple fact that he did warms him further to Caleb. He likes Caleb already, but this just adds to it.

Molly thinks that he likes Caleb rather a lot. He says nothing about it.

“Come on,” Caleb says eventually, “Let’s get you to my room.”

\---

Molly does not sleep in the servant’s quarters that night. When night falls over the garrison they seem to come to an unspoken agreement over Molly’s lodging for the night, and between the two of them they manage to find enough spare blankets and bedrolls to make a mattress of sorts for Molly in Caleb’s room. Molly feels a little out of place and unbalanced without his parchment and charcoal – even now his words are still slow and faltering, and he lives in fear of one day losing them altogether again and being unable to communicate with Caleb – but Caleb seems to notice his worries and the way his hands keep twitching at his sides, because once the bed is set up he tells Molly to wait and crosses to the desk in his room. He opens a drawer, pulls out a small notebook and a pencil – an actual pencil! – and crosses back to Molly, pressing the items into his hands.

“You may keep these,” he says, “For whenever you do not have your words.”

The leather cover of the notebook is fine and supple beneath Molly’s fingers. He looks down at it, runs his fingers over the dips and divots of the embossed Royal Zemnian Army crest, and looks back up at Caleb, seeing the soft smile on his face.

Molly thinks he wants to kiss him.

He doesn’t.

He takes the notebook and the pencil, smiles as wide and as bright as he possibly can back at Caleb, and sits down on his constructed bed. Any feelings he has about Caleb he can tackle later. For now, Molly needs to sleep, and so he climbs into bed, trades goodnights with Caleb, and falls asleep.

He has no dreams that night.

In the morning, they pack his bed back up. They both understand that this arrangement is only a temporary thing, that Molly must return to the servant’s quarters where he has been lodged, and so that evening Molly returns to his official lodging in the servant’s quarters and doesn’t sleep at all.

The night after that he returns to Caleb’s room and sleeps until dawn.

Every night from then on Molly finds his rest to the soft sounds of Caleb breathing.

\---

As the days pass they talk more.

Caleb learns that Molly is kinder than anyone he has ever known, that he has a fondness for pears, and that he doesn’t know where the scars on his chest or the chains that used to hang from his horns came from.

Molly learns that Caleb is one of the youngest lieutenants in the history of the Zemnian Army, that he is sharp and clever and has an unending fondness for books, and that he has a spell that summons a cat called Frumpkin from a pocket dimension.

They grow closer.

\---

By the time they have been at the garrison for a month Molly has moved into Caleb’s room in every way except officially.

\---

Caleb shows Molly around the garrison.

He leads him from room to room, working his way methodically through the wings and going through the building floor by floor, showing Molly everything he can as a soldier and flashing his lieutenant’s stripes to show him more yet. He shows him the rest of the officers’ quarters and the officers’ mess hall and the soldiers’ mess hall and the soldiers’ quarters and the stables and the parade square and the little gatehouse set into the encircling garrison wall and the falconer’s tower that’s more used for messenger pigeons these days. He shows Molly all of it, answering every question he’s asked that he’s allowed to answer and the whole time he’s grinning, delighting in being able to show Molly this place in which he _shines_.

Molly catches himself grinning back.

Caleb looks stunning like this. It’s like he’s lit up from within, his magic made physical in the joy in his eyes and the swift, certain movements of his hands and the confidence that he wears around himself like a cloak, big enough and bold enough that it encompasses Molly too. Molly doesn’t get stared at when he walks by Caleb’s side – Caleb is known and respected enough even here, where he commands but one of the five or so platoons that are stationed in the building, that people do not question him or his company.

It’s _wonderful_. Molly thinks he could watch Caleb talk all day.

At some point Molly realises that Caleb has taken his hand to drag him from room to room, and he doesn’t let go until they are alone in Caleb’s room again. Caleb, he realises later, never let go either.

\---

One night, they start sharing Caleb’s bed.

\---

Even in Caleb’s room Molly still gets nightmares. He expects they are rarer than they would be if he had followed the orders given to him and slept in his assigned cot in the servant’s quarters, but right now he doesn’t care about that. Right now he only cares that the nightmares are still happening.

He comes to with a gasp, eyes flying wide as he jerks awake. For one horrible, terrifying second he doesn’t know where he is – he doesn’t recognise the room or the furnishings or the bed he’s in and he’s lying on the floor and he doesn’t know where Caleb is and he’s _terrified_.

But then the moment passes, and Molly recognises the room to be Caleb’s officer room in the garrison, and it’s then that the nightmare comes flooding back to him in full.

It had been a weird one, to say the least. Molly has had many nightmares since being found by Caleb, and though all of them are different he’s come to recognise themes – there’s the ones that centre around the scars on his chest, the ones about him being plucked out of the tentative life he’s made for himself and being cast off into the wild, the ones that are nothing but darkness and silence and pure, indescribable _loss_.

Tonight’s nightmare was none of those. Tonight’s nightmare centred around his horns. More specifically, it centred around the chains that had been attached to them when Caleb had first found him – even now Molly doesn’t know why they were there or what purpose they served but in his dream the reason is apparent.

In his dream, the chains were there to control him.

He can still feel faint, dream-born tugging against them when he sits upright with a jerk, can still feel a pull on them that could so very easily be used to guide his head, to pull him back, to keep him restrained and tied down and muzzled like a dog. He catches his breath with a gasp, feeling his heart pounding in his chest, and blinks in the darkness of Caleb’s room.

“Fuck,” he whispers and reaches up, runs shaking, terrified fingers over the curl of his horns. There’s nothing there. “ _Fuck_.”

“Molly?” he hears Caleb murmur from the bed and he catches his breath again, his hand stilling on his horn save for where his thumb rubs against it, tracing the texture beneath his skin. “ _Geht es dir gut?_ ”

Molly recognises the Zemnian – it is not the first time he has heard it from Caleb: _Are you alright_?

“Fine,” he manages to say, and the word comes out awful and broken and choked. “I’m- I’m fine, Caleb. Go back to sleep.”

There’s rustling from the bed.  “Molly,” Caleb says again, sounding significantly more awake. Molly looks up, one hand still rubbing anxious circles on his horn, and sees Caleb half-sitting up in bed, lifting up the side of the blanket that’s closest to Molly. “Come here.”

Molly freezes. “…What?”

“Come here,” Caleb says again, and turns his head away from a moment to stifle a yawn before continuing. “You might- you may sleep better with me.” He doesn’t have to explain further – they both know that Molly already sleeps better when in Caleb’s room. He supposes this is only the next logical step.

He feels, for some reason, that he should be opposing this suggestion, but no argument comes to mind beyond a general vague feeling that he should be tough enough to handle this nightmare on his own. And he _should_ be, realistically, but he also feels no shame in accepting help if that help comes from Caleb. Caleb is safe. Caleb can be trusted.

So Molly nods, and says “Okay,” and crosses to Caleb’s bed and gets in under the blankets before he can talk himself out of it.

There’s a few moments of shuffling as they both get comfortable but there’s none of the awkwardness that Molly had expected – they seem to slot together like puzzle pieces, and they quickly end up with Molly tucked up against Caleb’s front, Caleb’s chin resting on the pillow above his head and Caleb’s arm wrapped close and warm around Molly’s waist.

“Is this alright?” Caleb asks quietly and Molly hums, gives a little nod and feels Caleb’s chuckle through his chest when his hair tickles against Caleb’s chin. “Good,” Caleb murmurs, and the arm around Molly’s waist squeezes for a second. Molly thinks he feels his heart squeeze in his chest in response.

For a while, there is silence.

“Caleb?” Molly asks in the darkness.

“Mm?”

“Why did you- why-?”

“Why did I what?” Caleb asks, sounding confused.

Molly takes in a breath. “Why do you do these things for me? You don’t have to.”

The answer he gets is unexpectedly swift.

“I don’t want you hurting,” Caleb says simply, and Molly’s heart squeezes again. “You are- you have come to mean a lot to me, Mollymauk.”

“Caleb,” Molly whispers. He doesn’t know what else to say.

In the darkness Caleb turns his head towards Molly, and Molly closes the distance to press their lips together.

Caleb kisses him back.

\---

\---

A month passes.

\---

The drill band is practising in the courtyard on a late spring afternoon, the sound echoing loud and proud off the stones of the garrison and drifting in through the open window of Caleb’s room. He catches himself tapping his foot to it from where he’s sitting at his desk pouring over papers, and after the band runs through the same section several times he hears, over the brass and the drums, the faint sound of someone humming along.

Caleb turns, and Molly, sitting on Caleb’s bed with a book open in his lap, flashes him a quick grin.

“I’m a quick learner,” he says when the band next pause for feedback, and Caleb cannot help but give a brief laugh.

“Yes,” he says, “I can see that.”

Below them, the band start playing again. It’s not a particularly jaunty piece but it’s pleasant all the same; it’s a piece that is less designed to be marched to and is more designed to be listened to in a concert hall or danced to at a formal event.

It is certainly not Caleb’s favourite waltz and he is far from a skilled dancer, but he wishes to dance to it all the same.

He rises to his feet, pushing his chair out of the way, and crosses the length of the small room to Molly, holding out a hand to him as he approaches the bed. “I wonder how quick a learner you really are,” he says, and Molly quirks an eyebrow and takes the offered hand.

“Well,” he says, standing up and moving away from the bed when Caleb tugs on his hand, “That depends what you want me to learn.”

“A dance.”

“Oh, I can dance just fine.”

“Perhaps,” Caleb replies, “But can you waltz?”

Molly’s eyes widen. “ _You_ can waltz?” he asks, sounding surprised, and Caleb rolls his eyes at the shock in Molly’s voice.

“Yes,” he says, “I am an officer. It is expected of me to dance with all the ladies when we attend formal functions. I must be an asset to my country and to my platoon. All officers can waltz, Molly.”

Molly’s eyes narrow. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he says, and Caleb can hear the teasing tone underlying his words.

“Fine,” he rebuts. He steps them out until they’re in the middle of the room and places one hand on Molly’s shoulder, keeping Molly’s hand in his other. “Place your hand on my waist,” he instructs, hearing the soft sounds of the band preparing to run through the piece again from beyond the window. “Not my ass,” he corrects, and Molly smirks at him, “My waist, _liebling_. Good. And now just- just follow me.”

They stand together in silence for a few moments, and then the band starts playing again.

Molly, to his credit, _is_ a quick learner – within but a handful of bars he’s almost entirely mastered the basics and has stopped stepping on Caleb’s toes, though Caleb knows how graceful Molly truly is and is almost entirely certain that every misstep of his was completely deliberate. He frowns at Molly and Molly smiles in response, still following every one of Caleb’s waltz steps as they carefully and slowly twirl around the room.

“Told you I was a quick learner,” he says.

“Told you I could waltz,” Caleb replies.

“Mm, yes, I guess I _do_ have to believe it now, don’t I?”

“I suppose you do.”

“Hey, I know that tone! That’s your mocking tone!” Molly says, and between one breath and the next he surges in closer, still waltzing even with his chest pressed almost flush to Caleb’s. He tilts his head back, smirks up at Caleb, and then rises up to kiss him.

Caleb melts into it.

Molly lips are soft on his own, his body warm and close beneath Caleb’s hands. It is a familiar sensation by now and Caleb basks in it, lets his mind go blank as he fits his lips to the shape of Molly’s and moves his hand from Molly’s shoulder to his waist, mirroring the position of Molly’s hand on himself. Their joined hands lower, coming to rest gently against their side, and the kiss ends, slowly and naturally. Caleb doesn’t chase after it, doesn’t feel like he needs to, and it’s… nice. It’s _simple_. They’re hardly even waltzing now, instead just swaying in place as the music comes in through the window, and after a while Molly gives a soft sigh and leans in to rest his head on Caleb’s shoulder.

Caleb makes a small, surprised sound. “Molly?”

“Mm?”

“Are you alright?”

“Fine, fine. Just- getting comfy.”

“Oh. Are you comfortable?”

Caleb can hear Molly’s smile in his reply. “Very comfortable, love,” he says, and Caleb ducks his head to press a kiss to Molly’s forehead.

The band stops practising, the sound of the music replaced by the distant voice of their conductor, and Caleb and Molly continue to sway.

\---

A week after they dance Caleb’s platoon are called away to fight in a skirmish.

“I’ll be back in a week,” Caleb promises, pressing kisses to Molly’s forehead, his cheeks, his lips. “Two weeks at most, _liebling_. Do not worry about me. Do not worry. We’ll be fine.”

“I know,” Molly replies, his words barely above a whisper. He curls his hands in the fine material of Caleb’s jacket, presses in as close as he can, and wishes that he could believe himself.

“Two weeks,” Caleb says, and he kisses Molly, kisses him again. “Two weeks, and that is all.” Caleb steps back but keeps his hands securely on Molly’s shoulders, staring him in the eye, blue to red. “Two weeks,” he says again, much softer than before. “I will miss you.”

Molly sniffs, and doesn’t let his voice crack. “I know,” he says. Caleb knows what he doesn’t say: _I will miss you too_.

Caleb pulls him in closer, and wraps his arms around Molly in a true hug. He feels the breath Molly lets out, feels as he sags against his shoulder, arms wrapping around his waist as though he could keep Caleb from the battlefield from sheer force of will alone.

“ _Ich liebe dich_ ,” Caleb murmurs, and presses another kiss to Molly’s forehead. _I love you_.

“ _Ich liebe dich auch,”_ Molly replies quietly. _I love you too_. It is one of the few phrases in Zemnian that Molly knows.

They stay like that for a few more seconds, locked in a simple embrace. They both know that this could well be the last time they ever see each other, and, unspeakingly, they both try to take as much contact as they can in case that is what happens.

When they finally break apart there are no tears shed, but they can both see them held at the corners of the others eyes.

“Two weeks,” Caleb says again, and he presses one last kiss to Molly’s lips before swinging his cloak around his shoulders and leaving the room.

\---

Caleb does not return in two weeks.

Molly feels that with every day that passes after the two-week mark he loses more of his words. For all that common is the second language of the vast majority of people stationed at the garrison it is still rarely used – Molly is still unknown and untrusted by many, and there are not many who are willing to speak to the purple-skinned, scar-adorned tiefling who spends more time in the officer’s wing than he rightfully should.

Molly does not speak, and is not spoken to.

When Caleb finally returns a month and a half later Molly is practically non-verbal again.

\---

Molly does not meet Caleb at the gates when he arrives back at the garrison. He isn’t even _aware_ of Caleb’s arrival back at first; he’s not legally bound to Caleb in any way, is not a member of the company that encompasses his platoon, is not a fellow officer or a fellow soldier or even a fellow Zemnian. He’s just a lone civilian who is, as far as everyone else knows, nothing more than Caleb’s unexpectedly good friend.

He’s sitting at the corner of the servant’s stairs in the east wing of the garrison fiddling with a loose thread in his shirt when he hears the scuffling of feet on wood from the floor above. He’s spent a lot of time in this quiet corner over the last few weeks, and he knows what the normal pattern of activity is – this is sufficiently outside of the norm to spark his interest, and after a few seconds pass he pushes himself to his feet and climbs the stairs to the landing of the floor above.

When he arrives on it he can hear the whispers through the door that leads into the main corridor.

“ _They’re back!”_

“ _All of them?”_

_“No but-“_

_“-they were-“_

_“-ambush!”_

_“-whole platoon lost-“_

_“-the thirty-first-“_

Molly feels his heart seize in his chest. The thirty-first is Caleb’s platoon.

He pushes the door open without a second thought, crossing the corridor to where the servants are clustered around the windows, watching the progression of arriving soldiers. He is not liked by most of them and he knows it, but where he would normally do his very best to be at least mostly out of the way of their scornful and fearful looks today he takes their fear and turns it to his advantage. He pulls himself up to his full height, fixes his expression into something that clearly reads in any language ‘get out of my way’ and strides forwards. It takes only a few nudges to people shoulders for the huddled cluster of servants to part around him and he’s right up by the window in seconds, watching as the soldiers return.

He does not know if he’s missed the arrival of Caleb’s platoon, but it doesn’t take long for him to find out – even now, returning from battle, the Zemnian army still marches in order. By the time he’s peering out of the window the banners of the 28th platoon are being carried through the gate, and then the 29th, and then the 30th, and then-

And then the banner of the 31st, tattered and muddied but still flying proud comes through the gate and there, riding haggard and gaunt and so exhausted that Molly can see it in his very posture, is Caleb.

It feels like sunlight has lit up in the marrow of Molly’s bones.

_Caleb is alive_ , he thinks, and feels the grin that threatens to envelop his entire face. _Caleb is alive!_

Alive, certainly, but not _well;_ even from this distance Caleb looks _awful_. His uniform is ripped in places, hastily sewn back together in others, and then fine embroidery of his lieutenant’s chevrons is almost invisible under the mud and blood that coats his jacket. He’s slumped in the saddle of his horse – and it’s not _his_ horse Molly knows, not really, his horse was a chestnut mare and this is a flea-bitten grey – and even from his vantage point at the window Molly can see him flinching with every step his horse makes.

He is hurting, and he is home, and Molly is delighted about one of those things and has some idea of how to help with the other.

He knows the drill by now. Caleb will not be returning to his room for some time, and thus Molly will not be able to meet him for several hours, for all the he wants to run down to the courtyard and kiss Caleb in full view of everyone. Caleb is a lieutenant, and there are procedures that must be upheld – he will need to meet with the captain of the company, and then they will together with the other lieutenants of the other platoons need to meet with the major and give their report, and then they will all need to discuss events and give yet another report to the lieutenant colonel of the garrison. After that Caleb will have to dismiss his platoon, issue commands to his sergeant and corporals, oversee anything else that needs to be done, possibly visit the medic if necessary (and Gods, Molly really hopes it _isn’t_ necessary) and then he will finally, _finally,_ be allowed to return to his own room.

Molly has seen him go through this process before, has listened to him complain and grumble about it as they lie together in bed afterwards, and knows it will take hours.

He turns away from the window, half-jogs down the hallway, slips into the servant’s staircase, practically runs to the kitchens, palms a few still-cooling pastries from the windowsill by the baker’s oven and makes his way to the great, steaming clothes washing room sunk into the basement beneath the garrison.

“Gerlinde!” he calls over the hissing of the steam, spying the woman in question at the end of the room. Her name feels odd and rusty in his mouth; he’s barely spoken more than a word a day for the last three weeks, and when he finally stands before her, pushing the pastries into her hands, he abruptly realises that he doesn’t have enough words to complete his request.

“You,” he says, and looks at her, looks down at the pastries he just handed her, tries to make it obvious that they are intended half as a gift, half as a bribe. “Cale- Widogast. Return. Bath? Room? Later.”

It’s more words than he’s said in the last week combined, and he hopes that she gets his meaning. Gerlinde, thankfully, is one of the few servants in the palace who seems to actually like, or at the very least tolerate Mollymauk – she listens patiently as he stumbles through his half-forgotten words, and when it’s clear he’s said all he can she nods and speaks his entire thought back to him.

“A bath for Lieutenant Widogast?” she asks in her Zemnian-heavy common, and Molly nods, gently pats the pastries in her hands. She looks down at them, and then looks back up at Molly with a smile. “He would normally have to call one for himself, but we shall run him a bath. Anything for the brave lieutenant.”

Molly smiles. _Thank you_ , he thinks, and thinks it must show in his eyes because Gerlinde pats him on the arm, slowly and gently. She knows how he is about unexpected contact. “I shall send someone to prepare it when he is finished with his reports,” she says, and Molly reaches up, covers her hand on her arm with her own, and smiles again.

\---

Caleb is back, and every single one of his bones _aches_.

He feels he’s being held together by healing magic alone – all through the meeting with the major and the lieutenant colonel he keeps zoning out, distracted by the throbbing of his ribs and the stinging in his shoulders and arms. Nothing’s _broken_ , he knows that much, and nothing requires any actual medical attention, but he is sore and tired and bruised and he desperately, _desperately_ wants to return to his room and call for a bath and then find Mollymauk and kiss him and kiss him again and take him to bed for the sole purpose of curling up next to him and sleeping for the next several years.

He wants to do all of those things, but there is a structure and order that must be upheld, and so he holds himself together and does his level best to pay attention and speak where he must through several hours worth of meetings. He hates it. He hates every second of it. He hates everything about this fucking war, hates that they have to fight, hates that _he_ has to fight, hates that he almost died and that he almost never saw Molly again and that he will undoubtedly, weeks or months later, have to go through it all again, and he hates these goddamn fucking meetings.

The anger simmers below his skin the whole time, and when he is finally dismissed, snapping off a salute and striding out of the room before his commanding officer can see the frustration on his face, he is in a foul mood on top of the multitude of aches thrumming throughout his body.

And then he gets to his room and opens the door, and every bit of anger that was lingering along his bones disappears almost instantly, because Molly is there.

Molly is there, and he’s standing next to a large, steaming bath, and Caleb is so immediately happy that he thinks he could cry.

“Caleb,” Molly says simply, and it feels like every last dredge of Caleb’s magic is trying to push above his skin in delight.

“Hey,” he says back, and when Molly smiles at him, wide and warm and delighted, Caleb finds himself smiling properly for the first time in days. He walks forwards, already planning on kissing Molly and hugging him and holding him close until the feeling of him is pressed into his very bones, but he makes it no more than a couple of steps before Molly holds up a hand and Caleb stops instantly. Molly’s holding the notebook that Caleb gave to him when they first arrived at the garrison in his other hand, already open to a page with a few lines written across it and he holds it up, pointing at Caleb and then back at the book.

_I lost my words again_ , the first page says, and Molly waits until Caleb looks back up at him to turn to the next page. _I have some of them, but not a lot. I got Gerlinde to run you a bath for when you were done with meetings because I know how much you hate them._ Molly turns to the next page. _Also, you looked like shit._

The last line makes Caleb smile, and he can’t stop himself from moving closer – he crosses the remaining space to Molly with a few swift steps, pressing their lips together in a kiss. “ _Danke_ ,” he murmurs, one hand lifting to cradle Molly’s face. “ _Danke, liebling_.”

He doesn’t deserve this man. He doesn’t deserve this man at all.

He presses another kiss to Molly’s lips, another, and Molly presses up into them, drops his notebook to one side and settles his hands on Caleb’s waist, using the contact to pull him in closer until there is no more space between them. He is warm and close and _alive_ beneath Caleb’s hands and it calms him more than anything else has, curls warmth around Caleb’s heart and lungs and bones and says _This is what you missed most of all_.

And says, _This is what home is now_.

“Clothes off,” Molly says when they finally break apart, and Caleb pauses for a moment. Seeing each other nude isn’t something new for either of them but Molly has never seen him like this, bruised and bloodied and battered in the wake of a battle. Molly has never seen the aftermath of combat like this and thinking back to their first meeting, thinking back to the state Molly was in when Caleb found him, Caleb hesitates to put him close to anything that could remind him of that time again.

“Now,” Molly says when Caleb continues to hesitate, and Caleb frowns slightly, gesturing to his torso.

“I am- I am not in the best way right now, Molly.”

Molly shrugs. “You’re alive,” he says. “All good.”

“I am bruised-“

“ _All good,_ Caleb.”

“-And I do not wish to upset you, _liebling_.”

Molly sighs and rolls his eyes. “ _All good_ ,” he says again. “Strip. Go. Bath.”

Caleb doesn’t push the issue any further. Molly is clearly fine with it, or he _believes_ that he will be fine with it, and Caleb doesn’t wish to argue with him when he’s feeling stubborn so he strips, casting his clothes off to the side with little care for how they fall. They’ll have to be washed and repaired and fixed up anyway – he doubts a few more creases will make things much worse. Molly picks them up anyway, folding them as neatly as he can before clicking his tongue to get Caleb’s attention.

“Clean clothes,” he says, pointing to the neatly folded stack on Caleb’s desk, and Caleb has to kiss him and kiss him again for his kindness and thoughtfulness until Molly laughs beneath his lips and pushes him back towards the bath.

Caleb can’t stifle his groan when he steps into the water – it’s almost scaldingly hot and the warmth seeps into his muscles immediately, drawing out the tension that’s built up in them over the last few weeks. Soldiers – even those with access to spells – don’t get to enjoy things like baths all that often when deployed and it’s been so long since Caleb last felt actually, truly clean that he can barely remember the feeling.

_Bless Molly_ , he thinks, and sinks deeper into the steaming water. _Bless him for all of this._

Molly waits until Caleb is settled and comfortable before he drops to his knees besides the tub, sponge in hand. He’s quick to start washing Caleb – at first Caleb tries to help, reaching out to try and take the sponge from Molly so that he can wash himself because _yes_ , he may be blue and black and purple all over from bruises  and _yes_ , there may be fresh burn scars adorning his arms that weren’t there before but he is also a fully grown man and an _officer_ who is perfectly capable of cleaning himself.

Molly doesn’t seem to care for any of that, though. He bats Caleb’s hands away the first few times he tries and actually _hisses_ at him when Caleb tries to help again after that, frowning at him with a playful, teasing glint still lingering in his eyes. He pulls the sponge safely out of Caleb’s reach and dries his hands off before reaching off to the side to grab his notebook, scrawling a quick message.

_Let me look after you_ , it says in large, emphatic letters. “Caleb,” Molly says, and he points to the message, “ _Read_.”

“Fine,” Caleb grumbles, but there’s no true annoyance behind the words – what little frustration had remained after seeing Molly had been quick to dissolve into the waters of the bath. “I _suppose_ I can let my boyfriend care for me. If I must.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Molly says. “Yes, you must.” He brandishes the sponge in Caleb’s direction, dampens it in the water, and sets to work scrubbing the built-up grime and soot and dirt off of Caleb’s skin.

As Molly continues methodically cleaning his body Caleb catches himself slipping into a doze. The actions are light, gentle and careful and repetitive and it doesn’t take long for Caleb to feel his eyelids starting to droop. He doesn’t stop it, though, doesn’t try to keep himself awake – he is safe now, in Molly’s company and in Molly’s care. He is home.

For the first time in weeks, Caleb can rest easy.

Molly wakes him with a kiss what could be minutes or hours later, and when Caleb slowly blinks his eyes open, more focused on the feeling on Molly’s lips beneath his own and Molly’s hands on shoulders than he is on the room around him he sees that a large towel has been placed beside the bath. Molly kisses him again, runs a hand through his hair – which is _clean_ now, and Caleb has no recollection of that even happening – and when he pulls back far enough for Caleb to see him clearly he is smiling, all soft and gentle and loving.

“Hey,” he says, “You awake?”

Caleb nods. “Mm, _ja_ , yes,” he says, “I am awake.”

“Good. Towel and into bed. Then a massage.”

“A massage?”

“Yes. Trust me.”

Caleb does trust Molly, intrinsically. “Okay,” he says, and Molly’s smile widens.

“Good,” Molly says again, and he kisses Caleb one last time before standing up, reaching out to offer a hand to him. Caleb takes it, pulling himself out of the water, and before he can even think of reaching for the towel Molly has it wrapped around his shoulders, scrubbing him dry with an efficiency that loses none of the gentleness of the bath. Once Molly deems him sufficiently dry he pats him on the shoulder, presses a kiss to his neck from where he’s standing behind Caleb and points him towards the bed.

“Bed,” he says and Caleb turns, stealing a kiss of his own before following Molly’s instructions. It’s a nice change, he thinks to be following instructions instead of issuing them for once – it makes things easier, makes things simple and straightforward. He only has to do what Molly says, with no need for worry or uncertainty of the fear that this decision will be the one that results in the loss of his platoon.

There is no need to think about the war now. He only needs to think about Molly’s instructions.

Caleb climbs up onto the bed and lies down on his back, but when he glances over to where Molly’s folding the towel he sees him quickly shake his head.

“On your front,” Molly says and Caleb does so immediately, rolling onto his front and tucking his arms under the pillow. He hears the rustling of fabric behind him and then feels the bed dip as Molly climbs onto it, and a moment later a weight settles over the back of his thighs.

“Okay?” Molly asks, and Caleb nods, smushing his face further into the pillow.

“Very,” he mumbles. He has missed this. Not specifically _this_ , as in the massage, but _this_ , as in Molly, and Molly’s presence. It has been too long, _much_ too long, since he last got to spend time with Molly, and he feels a little bad about returning to him and then almost instantly falling asleep, but he only feels that way for a few seconds before Molly presses his hands against the first knotted muscle in Caleb’s back and every thought leaves Caleb’s mind.

Caleb has been on the receiving end of Molly’s clever hands before but never quite like this; Molly’s fingers skate down his back like he’s done this a hundred times before, seeking out every remaining knot of tension and soothing them away with a few deft presses. Caleb can hear himself making soft muffled sounds into the pillow but doesn’t try to stop them – he feels too good, feels too comfortable and too relaxed under Molly’s hands, every little bit of accumulated tension from the skirmish finally being massaged away. Besides, Molly has told him before that he likes it when Caleb lets himself make sounds. This is just another instance of that.

In the wake of the bath and with the added comfort of Molly’s massage it doesn’t take long until Caleb catches himself drifting again. He feels like he’s turning to putty under Molly’s hands, his bones turning to honey, all warm and golden like sunlight, and every one of the scattered kisses he feels pressed to his skin feels like a fresh burst of magic settling in along his marrow.

Caleb sighs, and the last knot in his body comes loose. He is home, and he is safe.

“All done,” Molly murmurs, and doesn’t yet lift his hands from Caleb’s back. He kisses the side of Caleb’s neck, the curve of his jaw, kisses him again, and then slips gently off of Caleb’s back, moving away from the bed for a moment. Caleb doesn’t look but he hears the rustling of fabric, and when Molly returns, lying down next to him, there is nothing for Caleb to feel but warm, unbroken skin. He rolls onto his side, eyes still shut, and shuffles over to press as close to Molly’s side as possible, reaching out to search blindly for Molly’s hand. When he finds it he tugs, mumbling softly in Zemnian, and Molly is quick to get the idea and shift so that he’s half-lying across Caleb, pressing him down in the mattress with his weight.

“Good?” Molly murmurs and Caleb nods, tilts his head just a little to press a sleepy kiss to Molly’s lips.

“ _Ja_ ,” he mumbles, “ _Ja,_ very.” He feels safe and comfortable like this, unspeakably so; it’s like the weight of Molly is keeping him grounded, filling every one of his senses like an all-encompassing embrace. Caleb shuffles a little, freeing an arm to wrap it around Molly’s waist, and when Molly reaches down a few moments later to pull the blanket over them Caleb cannot hold back the content sigh that escapes him.

“ _Ich liebe dich_ ,” he mumbles, and Molly laughs softly, presses one last kiss to Caleb’s lips before settling his head against Caleb’s chest.

“ _Liebe dich auch_ ,” he says, and Caleb lets the tide of sleep take him.

\---

It is summer.

Caleb sits across from Molly on his bed, jacket and rank discarded and his legs crossed neatly beneath him. Molly reclines against the headboard, resplendent in the light of the evening sun that streams in through the window, and only smiles in response to Caleb’s frowns.

“ _Wunderbar_ ,” Caleb says again, pronouncing the words slowly and deliberately, “ _Du bist sehr wunderbar.”_ It is not the first time he has tried to teach Molly Zemnian, and though Molly can speak it now to a certain extent his pronunciation is still almost unspeakably bad. He can understand the language if he hears it spoken but cannot yet speak it clearly himself - for all that he is a fast learner in many other areas of life, languages seem to be one of the few areas where his natural skill falls flat.

But being Molly, he has fun with it all the same.

Molly grins. “Wonder-bear,” he says back, and his pronunciation is so atrocious that Caleb almost flinches. “Do beest seer wonder-bear.”

“ _Liebling_ ,” Caleb says with a grimace, “I- _nein, liebling_.”

“Oh, I can say that one!” Molly says, sounding smug, “ _Liebling_.”

His pronunciation is flawless.

Caleb leans forwards and kisses him. “ _Liebling_ ,” he murmurs, and Molly whispers it back against his lips.

\---

Caleb gets sent into battle again.

\---

Caleb comes back.

His second in command, his friend Sergeant Ferne, does not.

\---

Molly has seen Caleb many ways before, but he has never seen him in the midst of grief. Outwardly, outside the comfort and security of his room he handles it as any good soldier would, as any soldier is expected to – he expresses his sadness at the loss of such a valiant soldier, acknowledges that Ferne was his friend, talks of which of his corporals he plans to promote to fill her spot as his second-in-command and seems, as far as anyone can tell, as if he has completely accepted her death.

Molly is not anyone, and he knows the truth.

Caleb misses her dearly. Molly never spoke with Ferne much but they had traded a few words before, had spoken a few times when Caleb had excused himself from their company for a while and they’d had nothing to do but fill the uncomfortable air with cautious conversation. Ferne had been confident and competent and her common had been shoddy but Molly knew that his own Zemnian was no better, and they’d once ended up sitting on the floor of Caleb’s room as Caleb attended to some other issue, repeating words back and forth to each and slowly, slowly improving each other’s pronunciation.

Molly liked her. In time, he thinks he could have come to call her his friend.

That time will never come now.

“Tell me about her,” he says softly one night, when he’s curled around Caleb’s back like a comma and can feel Caleb trembling and sniffling gently in his arms. “Tell me about Ferne.”

Caleb stills. “… _Was_?”

“Tell me about Ferne,” Molly repeats. “Tell me things I didn’t know. Tell me about all the stupid stuff you guys did together.”

“Why?”

“Because she was your friend,” Molly says. “And she clearly meant a lot to you. You’re allowed to have your grief, Caleb. It can help to share it.”

“I-“ Caleb says and then cuts himself off, drawing in a breath before he falls still and quiet for a few long moments. “Okay,” he says eventually, and turns in Molly’s arms to face him.

That night, Molly learns about Ferne’s progression from lance-corporal to sergeant. The next night, Caleb tells him stories the two had traded together on watch, all the way back to when they were both privates together.

Gradually, the grief lessens.

\---

Two weeks after Caleb’s return, Molly wakes in the middle of the night to a scream clawing up his throat.

Having nightmares is nothing unusual, for both himself and Caleb – both of them have faced horrors of different kinds, and now that he and Caleb are… whatever they are, Molly’s brain has only found a new source to attack him from at night. It’s not uncommon for him to wake to images of Caleb’s corpse, bloodied and burning, lingering behind his eyelids, but those nightmares, unpleasant as they are, are still quick to dismiss. On a normal night, _most_ nights, Molly just has to roll over to find Caleb – they drift off curled up together in a tangle of limbs but tend to move apart as the night goes on, but it never takes more than a few seconds and a single, flailing hand for Molly to find Caleb’s body warm and close and _alive_ nearby to his own, and it’s all the proof he needs to push the nightmare away.

Tonight, though, the nightmare is not about Caleb. It is not about the war.

It is the kind of nightmare that Mollymauk hates the most, because it is the kind he can never remember.

He catches his breath with a gasp and slumps forwards, drawing his legs up and pressing his forehead against his knees as he fights to catch his breath. He _hates_ nightmares like these. He hates them, hates them so fiercely that it terrifies him because that very hate only adds into his fear. He hates these nightmares because, unlike dreams that centre around Caleb, there is no easy solution for these – he cannot reach out and find his love secure and unharmed beside him, cannot assure himself of Caleb’s vitality by pressing his lips to his pulse. He can do none of those things, because that is not what these nightmares are about.

These nightmares are the ugly reminder that he does not know who he was before Caleb found him.

He knows nothing about his past, nothing at all. He doesn’t know if he was good or evil or if he had a family or siblings or a partner or friends, doesn’t know if he was a soldier or a tailor or an entertainer or a cook, doesn’t know anything at all. He only knows what he was like when he was found. He only knows about the chains that had been on his horns and the blood that had been on his chest.

He doesn’t know what terrible things he could have done before Caleb found him.

Molly lifts a hand, presses it to the myriad of scars that adorn his chest, and feels another shattered sob force its way out of his lungs.

Beside him, he feels Caleb stir. “ _Was_?” Caleb murmurs sleepily, rising into a sitting position. With his darkvision Molly can so very easily see the hand he rubs across his eyes, can see the way he yawns before his bleary gaze settles on Molly. “ _Was ist es, Schatz?”_

Molly shakes his head. “Nothing” he says thickly, and doesn’t see how Caleb’s eyes widen when his voice breaks.

“Oh,” Caleb says softly and he moves closer, shuffles over the foot of empty space between them and wraps his arms around Molly, drawing him into a close hug. Molly doesn’t resist, letting Caleb press close to his back and wrap his arms around Molly’s stomach, his chin resting on Molly’s shoulder as he presses small, gentle kisses to his neck. “Oh, _liebling_ …”

Caleb doesn’t judge. Caleb _never_ judges, or presses, or asks Molly anything without checking that he’s okay to ask questions at all first. It’s a simple thing, tiny, but it makes Molly feel safer in his post-nightmare fear. He is safe. He is safe, and Caleb is here, and Caleb will not pry or push or make him uncomfortable and he doesn’t even have to say anything at all if he doesn’t want to, can just turn in Caleb’s arms and press his face to his neck and tug him back down until they’re both lying amongst the pillows and blankets and he can stay like that until he falls asleep again, and Caleb will ask nothing come morning.

Molly rarely wants to speak in the wake of these nightmares. He’s hard to spook and he knows it but these nightmares manage to burrow right to the core of his fear within moments, coiling in his mind like oil and saying to him _you are a broken thing_.

Right now, he feels it. He feels like his insides have twisted up and shattered like glass, stabbing him on every breath, feels like his mind has turned to the razor wire he’s seen the soldiers drilling with out in the fields, pressing into his skull and saying _you have no past to go back to._

But he is safe despite it all, and he knows it. He draws in a shaking breath, another, hears Caleb murmuring soft endearments to him in Zemnian and he is _safe_ , he is protected, he is safe and secure and protected and _loved_ and he is _shattered and broken and warped and twisted and a collection of ends and beginnings with no in-betweens and he is-_

“Mollymauk.”

Mollymauk blinks, and sees Caleb kneeling before him, blue eyes wide and worried. At some point he must have moved away when he felt Molly start to tremble, must have noticed how Molly’s brain was pulling him back into the nightmare. “Mollymauk,” Caleb says again, and Molly basks in the sound of his own name like a caress, like the gentle sensation of Caleb’s hand cupping the side of his face. “Come back to me,” he hears Caleb say, his words barely more than a murmur, and Molly pulls in a breath and pulls himself together and feels himself resettle under Caleb’s hands.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and feels Caleb press a kiss to his forehead.

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Caleb assures him, and Molly tilts his head up, looks at him with wide, worried eyes.

“What if I was someone awful?” Molly asks, “What if I did terrible things, Caleb?”

Caleb reaches out, takes Molly’s hands in his own and squeezes tightly. “It does not matter,” he says, his voice firm, “What and who you were is irrelevant, Molly. I care only for who you are now.”

“But what-“

“Would you do terrible things now?” Caleb asks, and Molly blinks.

“…What?”

“Right now, in this moment, in this life and time that you remember, would you do terrible things?”

Molly frowns and shakes his head. “No, no, of course I wouldn’t…”

“So why are you so set on believing that you would have done terrible things before this life?”

“Because I _don’t remember_ , Caleb! I don’t remember any of it! I could have done anything.”

“Yes,” Caleb accepts, “Yes, you could have. But I don’t believe that you did.”

“Why not? How are you so certain?”

“Because the Molly who would have done terrible things is not the Molly I know,” Caleb says simply. “And thus he would not be you.”

“They chained me up, Caleb,” Molly says softly, “What had I done that I had to be chained up for?”

“Nothing that matters now,” Caleb says and he leans in closer, presses his forehead to Molly’s and shuts his eyes. “It doesn’t matter now, love,” he says again, and his voice is soft, soft and gentle and so, so loving. “You are here, and I am here, and it is all over, whatever ‘it’ is. It doesn’t matter.”

_It doesn’t matter_.

Molly lets the words settle into his mind, and does his best to accept them. _It doesn’t matter_.

“It doesn’t matter,” he repeats quietly, and gets a kiss in return.

“No,” Caleb says. “What matters is that you know who you are now.”

“And who am I?”

Caleb smiles, and kisses him again. “You are Mollymauk,” he says, “You are Mollymauk and you are my friend and you are _mein Liebling, meine Liebe._ You are you.”

Molly, eyes still lowered, gives a small nod. “I’m me,” he repeats quietly, and looks up at Caleb with a weak, but nevertheless genuine smile. “I’m me,” he says again, and Caleb kisses him for it.

“Mollymauk,” he murmurs, and Molly kisses him back.

\---

Caleb’s platoon gets deployed again.

Their goodbyes do not get easier, but they do get gentler. They both know the risks that come with every deployment, know that no matter how well-trained and well-prepared Caleb and his platoon are there is always a chance that they will not return, and though neither Molly or Caleb have exactly _accepted_ that they have both accepted that there is nothing that they can do if that is to be the path of fate. There is no tearful goodbye that will stop a crossbow bolt to the chest. There is no soft kiss that will stop a fireball from burning Caleb down to the bone. There is no point in worrying about something they cannot control and though they both know that Molly will be fretting every moment Caleb is not safe in the garrison, safe in his arms, for now, at these goodbyes, they pretend.

“I’ll see you soon,” Molly says, and leans in to press a kiss to Caleb’s lips.

“I’ll see you soon,” Caleb repeats back to him. He smiles, soft and loving as always, and brushes his thumbs over the curves of Molly’s hips, leans in to press their foreheads together as Molly’s arms snake over his shoulders.

They stand like that for a while, sharing each other’s breath, and then Molly clears his throat quietly and leans back. He drops his arms from Caleb’s shoulders. He does not react at the loss of Caleb’s warmth.

“Stay safe,” he says softly. “ _Ich liebe dich_.”

“Always,” Caleb replies. “ _Ich liebe dich auch._ ” He steps in, takes one last kiss from Molly, and leaves with the feeling of him still tingling on his lips.

Molly wanders the garrison, talks to the few soldiers and servants who will talk back to him, practises his Zemnian, and does not lose his words.

\---

Caleb is not meant to be back for another week when Molly hears the news.

\---

Molly is not supposed to be here, and he knows it. He has lived in this garrison for long enough to know where he is and is not permitted (and to know where he is permitted, but only when he has Caleb by his side). He knows these things.

He also knows the exact patrol patterns of every man stationed in the building, and he knows every back passage and hidden route that the servants use as well.

He is slipping along the servant’s stairs by the washer rooms when he first catches the whispers. It’s quiet down here beyond the occasional errant hiss of steam from the vast boilers the servants use for washing the soldier’s clothes, and he knows from experience that it’s a favoured spot for the trading of small pieces of information. The servant’s passages are always rife with gossip – some of it true, some of it not, and all of it fascinating for a person like Molly.

This time, it is not servant’s gossip he picks up on. This time it is soldier’s.

“They’re not coming back,” he hears one murmur to the other when he’s walking along the landing of the staircase a floor above them, and the words are interesting enough to get Molly to slow his steps immediately, curious to know what they’re talking about. “The platoons that got sent out last week,” the same soldier continues, “They’re not coming back.”

“What? Why not?”

There’s a flurry of hurried, urgent whispering and Molly slinks closer, pressing as close to the wall as he can. He manages to make out the end of it.

“-all dead.”

“ _What_? All of them?”

“Apparently.”

“Fuck. How many platoons?”

“Just two. The 30th and the 31st.”

“Fuck,” says the soldier again, and on the stairs above them Molly feels his heart freeze inside his chest.

_Caleb_.

Below him, the soldiers are still speaking.

“What happened to them?”

“Don’t know. One of them managed to send a message spell before they got overwhelmed. We just know that there were more of the enemy than expected.”

“ _Fuck_.”

“Yeah.”

The soldiers trail off, trading a few more quiet words, but Molly barely notices. His heart is pounding in his ears, blood frozen and yet roaring through his veins all the same, but inside his mind there is only silence.

Silence, and a single thought.

_I cannot lose Caleb_.

It’s enough to stir Molly to action – he has never been one to dally, not even now, and between one breath and the next he knows what has to be done. He’s going to find Caleb. He doesn’t care that apparently everyone died – he’s going to go the battlefield, and he’s going to find Caleb, and he’s going to make everything alright.

He’s going to _fix this_.

He straightens up, brushes his hair back, does everything he can to look cool and calm and collected, and progresses down the stairs towards the soldiers. It only takes him a few second but he gets to them just as one of them leaves, slipping through the door and leaving Molly alone with the other. The soldier glances at him with a frown, then leans back against the wall with a dismissive huff.

It's clear that Molly’s not going to get what he needs out of him like this, but that’s alright. He has a few tricks up his sleeve. He approaches the soldier.

“Hello!” he says brightly, doing his utmost to portray a front that’s all smiles and charm. He doesn’t let his fear show on his face, his withheld heartbreak. He can’t. The soldier glances at him, clearly recognising him as the garrison's resident tiefling, and looks away again. Molly tuts. “Is that anyway to greet a friend?”

The soldier glances at him. “You’re not my friend, demon-blood.”

“Oh, come on,” Molly says and he smiles at the soldier, lets what little magic dwells beneath his skin slip out to combine with his words. “We’re friends, right? You know me.”

The soldier blinks. “Yeah…” he says slowly, “Yeah, we- we are. Of course we are. You’re a great friend!”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Molly says, smiling wider. His magic has taken hold now – he will have an hour until the spell breaks and the soldier becomes aware of the charm. Molly’s not worried.

In an hour he won’t be in the garrison at all.

“Listen,” he says, sidling in closer, “I couldn’t help but overhear you and… oh, what’s his name? The guy you were talking to, about so tall, brown hair…?”

“Jannick,” the soldier provides helpfully.

“ _Jannick_ , that was it. Anyway, I _may_ have overheard you two talking – you know how it is, sounds do echo awfully well in these stairwells – and I was wondering if you could tell me about those platoons? The ones that got overwhelmed?”

The soldier shrugs. “Not much to say beyond that,” he says, “I only know what Jannick told me – I shouldn’t even be telling _you_! It’s not been officially announced yet!”

Molly smiles at him, damn near fluttering his eyelashes as he pulls tighter on the magic wound about the soldier. “But we’re _friends_ , aren’t we?” he says, “You know I won’t tell anyone.”

“Yeah,” the soldier acquiesces immediately. “I trust you”

“Good lad,” Molly says. “Now, could you tell me where they were?”

“Where who were?”

“The 31st,” Molly says, fighting to keep his voice level and calm. “The 31st, where were they deployed to?”

The soldier shrugs. “Out by the Elsyne fields somewhere,” he says, “Out to the east. They’d been getting invading forces coming in so the higher-ups dispatched a couple of platoons to deal with them.”

East. The Elsyne fields. Molly doesn’t know exactly where they are but he knows their vague directions, has seen enough maps at the garrison to be able to at least start planning his route there.

“Thank you,” he says, clapping the soldier on the shoulder and giving him his biggest grin. “You’ve been a great help.”

“Oh, any time!” the soldier replies and Molly grins at him again, turns, and high-tails it towards Caleb’s room. He packs a bag, wraps Caleb’s two dearest and most beloved books in clothing and adds them to the top, slips out to the stables, takes the flea-bitten grey mare that Caleb had ridden back into the garrison all those months ago, and leaves.

\---

Molly finds Caleb. It’s easy enough to follow the path of the fleeing villagers back towards their source, and his borrowed steed from the garrison’s stables is swift and sure-footed and strong enough to carry him for weeks.

It does not take weeks to find Caleb, thankfully; Molly finds him in five days.

He finds Caleb on a battlefield, which is not surprising, but he finds him alone, which is. There’s no sign of his troop, no sign of his soldiers or his sergeants or even the enemy. There is only the field, burned black and smoking gently in the quiet dawn air. Molly knows when he first approaches it that he’s found what he’s looking for – even wildfire does not raze and burn as thoroughly as mage-fire does, and the Elsyne fields are only a days ride away. This place was the site of the skirmish Caleb had been sent to fight. It _must_ be.

Molly slows his horse to a walk, watching the field carefully as he approaches. Somewhere out there, amongst the soot and the ash and the burned, charred-black bodies, is Caleb.

Molly does not dare think that one of the bodies may be his.

The air is deathly silent. The mare’s hooves ring out like marching drums on the sun-baked road, kicking up plumes of dust that settle, rust-red amongst the soot that borders the road. There is no greenery in the field anymore, no life to be seen – all is still and silent and dead, and Molly feels his heart drop in his chest.

_This cannot be how we end_ , he thinks, and feels something tug, wire-sharp, along the curve of his ribs as his breath catches in his throat and he freezes in the saddle.

He has just spotted movement in the field.

Molly draws his horse to a stop alongside it, and doesn’t bother trying to find something to tie her reins to. He swings out of the saddle and very nearly hits the ground in a sprint, pelting through the short, smoke-blackened grass that edges the battleground and onto the battleground proper itself. The air is still thick with swirling embers and soot and ash and he knows that he should be more careful, knows that he has no way of knowing if the lone figure he just watched push itself up from out of the ashes is Caleb or a member of Caleb’s platoon or a member of the enemy squadron but he _has to know_.

He doesn’t stop running until he is close enough to recognise the Royal Zemnian Army uniform the figure is wearing.

_It’s Caleb_ , his heart says. _It’s Caleb, it’s him, he’s alive, he’s okay_.

The figure is covered in soot but Molly feels he would know Caleb anywhere – he recognises him in the slope of the figure's back, in the way they stand, in the way they turn their head to survey the area before slowly, _slowly_ , starting to walk forwards. _It’s Caleb_ , he thinks, he knows as surely as anything, _It’s Caleb, and he’s alive_.

Caleb doesn’t seem to realise that he’s not alone on the battlefield – he hadn’t noticed Molly when he first glanced around and his path is only taking him further way. Molly pauses for only long enough to catch his breath before he starts walking again, stepping as swiftly as he can over the embers and the charred, burning corpses. He doesn’t look at them.

He only looks at Caleb.

“Caleb,” he calls softly, and gets no response. “ _Caleb!”_

Caleb pauses, head tilted to one side as if he’s not sure if he heard something, but then the moment passes and he shakes his head, rubs a hand over his eyes and keeps on walking.

_Fuck_.

Molly picks up his pace. He can feel bones slipping and rolling under his feet and keeps his balance as best he can without looking away from Caleb. He won’t let himself look away; he can’t lose Caleb again.

“Caleb,” Molly calls again, and then he hears a bone snap beneath his foot and watches as Caleb spins around in a second, his hands alight with fire and his eyes wide and _terrified._

“Caleb,” Molly says. He does his best to keep his voice low and soft and soothing – Caleb looks spooked, started and twitchy like he just woke up from a nightmare, like he’s still in one. “Caleb, it’s alright, it’s me.” He tries not to let his fear, his worry for Caleb and everything that has happened to him show in his voice but it is _hard_ – he has never been afraid of Caleb before, not even when Caleb first found him, but Molly very nearly is now. Caleb looks wild, feral; his face is streaked with soot and his fine uniform is tattered and burned, the fire that curls in his palms shining back at Molly in Caleb’s eyes.

He looks, most terrifyingly of all, like he doesn’t know who Molly is.

And then Caleb blinks, and Molly watches as recognition dawns in his eyes.

“Molly,” Caleb whispers, and Molly smiles.

“Hey there, love,” he says, stepping in closer.

“ _Molly_.”

“Yeah, that’s right, it’s me, it’s just me.”

Caleb steps forwards and stumbles almost immediately, his foot catching on the charred bones beneath their feet. His body lurches, tilting dangerously, but Molly darts in to catch him without pause for thought, reaching for Caleb in any way he can and catching him about the shoulders. His fingers curl around Caleb’s upper arms, and from the corner of his eye he sees the flickering fire in Caleb’s palms fade and dwindle and die.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, holding tight to Caleb’s shoulders. The fabric of his uniform feels rough beneath Molly’s fingers, charred and coated in soot that’s already starting to turn his fingers black, and when he adjusts his hold he sees the embroidery of Caleb’s lieutenant’s chevrons glinting weakly in the overcast sunlight.

Molly feels anger rise in his belly. He hates those chevrons all of a sudden, hates them more fiercely than he thinks he’s ever hated anything before. He hates them more than the scars on his chest and the chains that once hung from his horns and he wants nothing more now than to rip them from Caleb’s shoulders, to discard them amongst the soot and the ash and the bones and turn to the Empire and say _you cannot have him_.

And say, _he is not yours anymore_.

Molly has never owned Caleb and has never wanted to, but the Empire’s grasp on Caleb has always been there – Molly has never known Caleb without it, has never known him in a place where people called him by his actual name more often than they called him ‘lieutenant.’ It permeates him through and through, sinks into his skin and demands more and more and more from him, demands his _life_ , demands his heart and Molly’s by extension, and Molly wants to tear the chevrons from Caleb’s shoulders and _destroy_ them.

He shifts his hand, and covers the embroidery back up again. He cannot be angry. Right now, in this instance, he cannot let himself be angry. Anger is not what Caleb needs right now. He shifts, hearing bone and cinder groan and crack beneath his feet, and the sound seems to startle Caleb to words.

“I did this,” Caleb rasps. “Molly, I did this.”

Molly does not say _you couldn’t have_. He knows Caleb’s magic. He knows it’s power. Caleb is more than capable of burning a field, of turning living bodies to charred and broken bones.

“I did this,” Caleb repeats, quieter, and he looks down at his hands, looks at the soot that’s coating them from fingertip to elbow. “These were- I- _Gott, Ich tat dies…_ ”

“Caleb,” Molly says again, keeping his voice soft and gentle, “Caleb, it’s okay. Whatever happened, it’s over.”

“ _I killed them_.”

“You didn’t mean to.”

“You cannot say that, you were not here, Molly. I _killed_ them!”

Molly takes a breath, tastes the ash and soot that settle dust-fine on his tongue. “I know you, Caleb,” he says simply, “You wouldn’t have done anything if you didn’t absolutely have to. Their deaths are not on your hands.”

“They were my men and I led them into this. They died because I told them to.”

“They died because there is a war on.”

“I gave them the command!”

“And you did everything you could to save them!” Molly rebuts. “You are a good man, Caleb,” he continues softly, “I know you are.”

Caleb looks up at him, and Molly can see the tears starting to bead at the corners of his eyes. “ _Molly_ ,” he whispers, and the pain and anguish and fear in his voice crawls inside Molly’s heart and _shatters_ it.

Molly leans in, brushes Caleb’s hair back from his face and presses their foreheads together, his eyes fluttering shut. “You are no monster, Caleb,” he murmurs, “Not now. Not ever.” _Not to me_. “I love you,” he says, and he feels one of Caleb’s hands settle over the top of his own. “I love you.”

“You shouldn’t…”

“Try and stop me, darling.”

Molly hears a quiet huff of laughter and opens his eyes, leaning back to look at Caleb again. His eyes are still damp but he looks marginally better now, looks less like he’s only barely managing to hold himself together.

“Come on,” Molly says and he reaches down, takes Caleb’s unresisting hand in his own. “Let’s go.”

Caleb blinks at him. “Where?”

“Anywhere,” Molly says. “Anywhere at all. Somewhere the Empire can’t find us again. No more Empire, no more war, no more Lieutenant Widogast. Just you and me.”

Caleb smiles. It’s small and weak but it’s there all the same, and it’s genuine. “I like the sound of that,” he says quietly, and Molly beams at him.

“I thought you would,” he replies. They have nothing between them save for the clothes on their backs and the contents of Molly’s bag, but Molly doesn’t care. They’ll make their way. They’ll _always_ make their way.

“ _Ich liebe dich_ ,” he says softly, and Caleb smiles a little more.

_“Ich liebe dich auch_ ,” he replies, and Molly leans in to press a kiss to his lips, cards a hand through his hair and kisses him again, feeling Caleb soften underneath him. Molly loves him with a fierceness so strong it almost hurts sometimes and he does his best to show it to Caleb now, kissing him hard and sweet and certain. He’s not leaving him. He’s not losing him. Not now, and not ever.

“Come on,” he murmurs when he can feel the soot starting to settle in his hair, stepping back and letting their hands hang in the space between them. “You and me, let’s go.”

“Let’s go,” Caleb repeats back at him, still smiling faintly, and Molly smiles back. He loops an arm around Caleb’s waist and together they walk, two shattered, broken things, out of the field of ashes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! If you have any prompts or requests for me please do send me a message over at my [tumblr](https://crunchywrites.tumblr.com/ask) ^-^
> 
> Thanks to [Naluh](https://morstan.tumblr.com/) for betaing, and thanks to [Heidi](https://twitter.com/heidzdraws/) for the beautiful art!


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